who has to cope with their owner.'
'Probably,' I replied. Perhaps I hadn't had enough punch after all. Then again, maybe my suspicions were right and Mr. Dibbit didn't really want them back.
Just then Rob burst back into the yard. He was disheveled and slightly bloody, attempting to shake Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark from the death grip they seemed to have on his arms. And trailed by several deputies.
'Now what?' I moaned.
Just then one of the peacocks gave a particularly ghastly shriek. Both deputies drew their weapons and swung into a defensive formation in an impressively calm and efficient manner. Michael and I crouched behind a dormer until that misunderstanding had been settled and then climbed back down the ladder to catch the next act.
Samantha and Ian had apparently gone to the airport and taken a commuter flight to Miami. Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark had restrained Rob from taking the next flight and had escorted him back home. They were still standing guard over him. Presumably, so were the deputies. Silly, if you asked me. Did they think he would rush out onto the runway at Miami International to challenge Ian to armed combat, with Samantha going to the victor? An aunt who owned the local travel agency was on the phone using her connections to find out if they'd booked a continuing flight.
'They don't need to book one,' I pointed out. 'They've got the honeymoon tickets.'
'Surely she didn't give Ian Rob's ticket,' Mother said incredulously.
'She ran away with him,' I countered. 'Why shouldn't she give him Rob's ticket?'
'She didn't even wait to see if I passed the bar exam,' Rob kept saying, in an indignant tone.
'Rob,' I said, when I could get his attention, 'where's my car?'
'Car?'
'You were driving my car,' I said. 'Where is it?'
'Oh, God, I left it at the airport.'
'At the airport? You drove away and left my car parked in the airport parking lot?'
He winced.
'Well, in the loading zone, actually.'
'Good heavens, Rob,' Uncle Lou said. 'Why didn't you tell us that? They'll have towed it by now.'
'Was that Meg's car?' Cousin Mark asked. 'I saw them towing away a little blue car when we drove off.'
'You left my car to be towed?' I said. Rob hung his head.
'Don't scold your brother, dear,' Mother said. 'Think what a trying day he's had.'
'What do you mean a trying day?' I said. 'Trying day? He's just had one of the luckiest escapes in history. What the hell is trying about--'
'Meg,' Michael said, grabbing my arm with one hand and steering me toward the house, 'let's go call the airport.'
'Trying!' I shrieked back over my shoulder as Michael dragged me away.
'We can find out where they've towed your car--'
'Talk about trying! How about someone trying to find out if Samantha and Ian happen to be carrying a suitcase full of embezzled cash!'
'I'll give you a ride,' Michael went on relentlessly.
'How about trying to find out if she knows anything about digitalis--'
Michael managed to drag me away from the reception, though not before I'd made a fool of myself shrieking several more wild accusations about Samantha. We collected his convertible and sped out to the airport to find where they'd towed my car. And then across the county to the towing company's lot. Which was run by one of Mother's more feckless cousins. And was closed tight when we arrived, with a sign on the gate: Back Soon.
'I wonder how soon is soon,' Michael said.
'Great,' I said. 'He hauls my car out here in the middle of nowhere and then dashes off looking for another victim.'
'Well, relax. Look at the bright side: it's probably a great time not to be around your neighborhood.'
'I'm sorry to drag you out like this.'
'The fun was just about over at the house,' he said. 'And I wanted the chance to talk to you.'
'I'm not very good company right now.'
'Understandable,' he replied.
'Do you think she did it?' I demanded.
'Who?'
'Samantha.'
'Run away? I'm sure she did it.'
'I didn't mean that; I meant the murders.'
Michael shrugged again. 'You've got me. Forget about the murders for now. And Samantha.'
'Easier said than done,' I muttered. I was getting sleepy--I had gotten up at five-thirty, after all. I leaned back in my very comfortable seat. I closed my eyes.
'Meg,' Michael said, in a firm tone.
'Mmm?' There was a pause. Whatever Michael wanted to talk to me about, he was in no hurry. Neither was I. It was very peaceful out here in the middle of nowhere, with just the frogs and crickets. Much more peaceful than it would be back home. The tow truck driver could take his time.
Suddenly I felt my shoulder being shaken. 'All right,' I growled. 'I'm not going to sleep.'
'You did already,' Michael said. 'You've been asleep for hours. The tow truck driver is finally here. Are you awake enough to drive home?'
I was. And fortunately, by the time I got home, things were fairly quiet around the neighborhood.
Sunday, July 24
Sunday was a busy day. Also an awkward one.
'Should we go over to help the Brewsters with the cleanup?' Pam wondered.
'They've already got a cleaning service coming' I said. 'They can afford to pay for it and still bail out Samantha, I'm sure.'
'We don't want to look as if we're avoiding them,' Pam countered.
'Why? Aren't we?'
'You can't exactly blame them for what Samantha did,' she protested.
'Why not? They raised her. Besides, if you were the Brewsters, wouldn't we be the last people you wanted to see right now?'
'Hmm,' she said.
'Don't you think you should go over to start sending back the presents?' Mother asked.
'Surely the Brewsters can do that.'
'One does want to make sure it's done right,' Mother said. Translation: make sure all the family members who sent valuable or antique gifts got their stuff back safely.
'I think we should wait a day or so, Mother,' I said. 'I can get a head start making up some labels; I've got the index cards with the record of who sent what.' Translation: the Brewsters won't be able to put anything over on us and abscond with any valuable presents.
'I imagine they've got a lot of food that they don't feel like eating just going to waste,' Dad said. 'Do you suppose I should go over and offer to help them with it?'
'No, Dad.'
The Brewsters weren't picking up the phone or answering the door, anyway; I'd tried the one and Mrs. Fenniman the other. I left a polite message on their machine apologizing for intruding when they had so much on their minds and asking them to let me know if there was anything that needed to be done.
'I think they're packing,' Mrs. Fenniman reported with glee.
